Not Me

From top to bottom, she is favored, beginning with locks that meet her hips, a body of 40-20-28 wrapped preferably by explicit finery, slim legs behind ripped jeans, and seven-inched feet.

Her strands dyed yearly, brows colored weekly, eyes surrounded in black streaks, lips red daily, nails shaded shiny, ears pierced over thrice, skin tattooed temporarily, face memorably enhanced.

People adore that light raspy voice that effortlessly achieves high notes, a light-lyric soprano leading the microphone, shrieks of the foul too evident.

The ideal friend she must be for being indulgent in bars and clubbing, liquid shots she glozes over, enjoying the liquor until they are over—the majority whom she seconds on with an adorned dominating right hand.

A rocky heart has been shoved under the bust, pumping and beating too little, centered to the self and to dates either made, replaced, joint or remade like a flashing movie she really stands to.

Who is this lass you seek?

She is Princess Baby McQueen and she is not Mimi Joo.

Who is Mimi Joo?

They sleep on her trimmed brunette locks that stay above the crown, she who maintains 36-28-36 underneath anything or what they do not wear, and has feet of nine and a half.

She who keeps her all natural, needless are dye, treatment, polish, tattoos, surgery; regular lobe piercings and less cosmetics are sufficient.

People find shock in that heavy dark voice that resides in the lowest range, an oktavistka between the headset, words of deep substance.

The real friend she is, mocked for her philosophy and hatred for vice, despite concern and caution is skipped like fake news, towards the light the toxins she will always refuse—that she crosses with two active hands.

A heart of armor is kept in the treasure chest, pumping and beating at its best, a lowly pronounced ubuntu is centered across its chambers in silence.

She is Mimi Joo, devoutly grateful as she is.